Thy Will Be Done
by RockinJanelle
Summary: Blessed be my child, hollowed be my name. Moriarty's Guardian could not see another hurt his master, not that close to Death. Moran/Moriarty. PG.


**Title: **"Thy Will Be Done"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Moran/__Moriarty__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock__  
><em>**Word Count: **_~3,000_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>_T_  
><strong><br>A/N: Something fun, I suppose. I'm not religious, so I don't even know if any of this is okay or not LOL WHOOPS.**

**Anyway, this was a prompt from tumblr with Moriarty and Moran dealing with wings. This is the best I could come up with. And it's probably and utterly terrible, but it'll have to do.**

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

Thunder and lightning ripped across the night sky. Screams of terror and fear echoed in a small house somewhere far, far away from the city. Inside the house lived a mother and a child, whispering to the world their secret life. They were the people no one wanted to see, no one wanted to take care of—so they moved. They were the outsiders of the night, dreaming one day that the city would be theirs to take, that they would escape their outside world to be normal.

But normal was not a choice, however, as the little child would ruin it for the mother. She blamed him for all the misfortunes caused by the family. She was not a mother. She was a devil. Her life revolved around making his life a living Hell, fire and brimstone washing over his petite body, scar after scar after scar forced into his brain. They spoke not a word to one another, unless she yelled at him. And if he talked back? That was not an option, unless he wanted forty lashes across the sky ripping open the gates of Heaven to take him away.

This particular night was no different. She was still Lucifer, cackling to the high spirits above to take her demon child away, to throw him into the ninth level of Hell and freeze him with the worst of the worst. He did not remember what he had done—was it of importance? No, but her little causation to detail had made her out for blood, her own blood.

He was surprised she would drop the knife. The usual days would have him pinned to the floor, and her cutting his back as many times as she could before he would start to feel light-headed. And she would pray for him. "Blessed be my child, hollowed be my name," she would repeat over and over again. It did nothing for him or her. He looked down to the knife on the floor and watched her scratch at her head, itching to scream to the world what a demon looked like.

"Dear God," she began, "Take my child away from these wretched grounds. He is no son of mine. Strike down your final punishment against this wicked demon and send those black eyes to the deepest pits of Hell. Bless my child with the life he deserves, not the life he must live," she fell to her knees. "Take him away, take him away, take him away…" she closed her eyes and scratched at her head, blood dripping from her scalp. The child, bruised and battered, turned away from his mother and took one step toward the staircase.

But there was a black feather waiting on the ground. The little boy stared at the idle feather, wondering what was there before he turned. And when he bent down to pick it up, it dissipated into the frozen air that was his Hell. His fingers felt the prickling of the feather before it washed away its sin, leaving no trace of its soul. Was it Death? Perhaps his mother's prayer was finally going to be answered. Was he afraid? No, he was interested. Why was Death here, and why hadn't he showed up before?

The little boy scaled the staircase with his eyes and saw a trail of feathers scattered across the steps. Where was he to go if he followed the trail of black lies and deception? The little boy had no belief in God or Lucifer, nor had he a belief in faith. No one had helped him before then; no one heard his little prayers against his mother. How he wished the Earth would open and swallow her whole, sending her through a life of pain and tragedy for all eternity. But he turned back to the kitchen next to the staircase, watching her crumble and deteriorate into her demon. And when her red eyes locked with his blackened voids, she screeched.

"Why don't you just die!" Her voice cracked with Lucifer's own voice that could terrorize anyone's soul, but not the little boy's. He had heard it all before. He had to live with the demon on his back, the sins of his tragedy. Her fingers grasped the knife on the ground and she painlessly lifted her heavy body off the ground. She weighed no more than 110 pounds, but she carried the world on her shoulders and felt God pushing her more to the ground. Her feet stomped and rattled the house off its foundation, and she charged at the little boy.

The knife aimed for his heart. But he would not die such a shameful death; he stepped on top of the first step toward the second floor and watched his mother crash and burn into the floor. She would not get up for a long while, as God shined a light on her head and kept her still. Thunder boomed again, this time even shaking his own soul. The little boy looked up the staircase again and began to run. What kinds of demons did his mother call forth? Was Hell after him and wanted to burn his heart out? Whatever it was, the little boy did not want to look back. With each step he took, the feathers started to shiver with anticipation, following the little boy to perdition and back.

At the top, it was his room and his mother's room beside the other. He looked into his mother's room. He remembered a time when she was not possessed, when he could run into his mother's arms and ask for a bedtime story. Or if he had a nightmare about the shadows that crept alongside him at school, she would open her arms and protect him with everything she had. "My little James," she would say. But now that voice had bitterness attached, venom that bit the tongue of all the demons in the sky. It used to be a pure place, one that was always so tidy and white. Now, it was filthy, full of blood and sin that cracked against the walls and bore the cross of the Anti-Christ. Bible verses were scattered across the floor, from John to Ezekiel, and she spent hours at a time spouting off the sacred words, hoping God would make her a messenger of His grace and have her strike down her own child.

He looked to the ground. The feathers went into his room, the one that stood before him with open arms. He stayed in his room most of the time, especially when his mother would start talking of Revelations. It was the only room in the house where she was not allowed, or christened to never enter the room. Perhaps it was God's mysterious work playing with the little boy's mind, or maybe it was because she hung a cross in his room long ago and it repelled against the dark arts. Whatever the case, he took a leap of faith into his room and slammed the door shut.

Where was Death? He looked around his room, watching the shadows line against the wall. There was not much in his room, as he didn't need much to survive in Hell. He had a bed, he had a desk, and there were books in the bookshelf. He read all those books years ago, and he continued to read the same stories day in and day out. His favorite was _Crime and Punishment_, by Dostoevsky. One day, he thrived to be Raskolnikov, and perhaps the old woman would be his mother. But he would not share such a dastardly dream with her; he would remain silent and keep his secret with the Lord.

Lightning struck; the room lit up. There was no one in there, not one living creature. Was Death hiding in the shadows of the damned? The little boy stepped away from the door and looked around his room, looked under his bed, behind the shelf, inside his closet—no one. Part of him hoped for the afterlife; the other part of him wished to meet Death face to face. He heard his mother start to scream again, crying for mercy from God about what she was about to do to her little James; he just stood in the middle of his room.

And as the storm continued to rage and send forth its wrath upon the innocent lives in the outside world, he wondered what the feathers were. Was he finally losing his mind? No, his mind was lost long before the feathers arrived. He closed his eyes; what were they for? Was a raven loose in the home? Was his mother trying to scare him into thinking he was going to die? He couldn't think straight.

When he opened his eyes, the feathers were back. This time, they surrounded him in a black wall of despair. He looked at the black feathers and reached out to touch them. "James Moriarty," a voice called out. His hand suddenly retreated from the feathers. James looked beside him to see a man standing there, staring at the door ahead of him. Who was this man? Was it Death beckoning him and teasing him with the afterlife hanging in front of his face?

"Who are you?" James whispered. The man turned his head. Bright blue eyes, dark hair, very tall, almost perfect face—

"Sebastian," the man voiced. James looked away from Sebastian's face for a moment and saw another wall of despair hanging from his back. Black wings. He wore nothing else that was black.

"Are you Death?" Sebastian blinked. The wing in front of James rose above his head and twisted around the back of his body. He thought he was going to be swallowed whole. Instead, the wing hugged his body, the warmth surging through his veins.

"No," Sebastian said. James could hear how deep his voice was, but how soothing it was at the same time. Sebastian turned to James, the wings creating a barrier between him and the outside world. When Sebastian stood before him, he could see nothing but light and dark conflicting. "I am thine Guardian."

James frowned. "Guardian," he repeated. Sebastian nodded. "Why now?"

"You are about to perish." James did not move. He welcomed Death, though, wanted to die. If he had to spend one more day in Hell, he would kill himself. "And thou shalt not die. Not yet."

"I was about to die last week. Why weren't you there then?" The previous week was the worst of them all. She cracked. She threw him against the wall over and over again, beating him with a metal object of some kind, as if he was a ball. He was bleeding from the head down, bruises crashed against his bone. And she just laughed. She stopped before he blacked out.

"Thy will and testament to seek revenge prevailed." James raised an eyebrow.

"You are not a messenger of God," Sebastian stared at James.

"And you of little faith are not His child," He knew that. He was spawned by the Devil himself. God wanted nothing to do with the Anti-Christ, so he shipped him to the next of kin. James watched as Sebastian knelt to the ground, his head bowed in honor. "Art thou not the boy that rules society in dreams?"

James pushed away from Sebastian, the wings separating. "How do you know that?" He growled. Sebastian stayed on his knees, the deep red robes fabricating the blood hidden in the floorboards below.

"I know what you seek," was his reply. James stared at Sebastian. Who was he? Why was he there then? To what purpose—suddenly, he heard the staircase echoing with footsteps, followed by the slight prayers of his mother. He turned his head to the doorway and waited for her to arrive. What would she say when she saw an Angel—was he an Angel?—in his own room? James watched as Sebastian rose from the ground and turned his back. The wings hid him from the world.

"What are you doing?" Sebastian turned his head just as he heard his mother outside the door.

"Absolution," he replied.

The door slammed open. James could see his mother gripping the knife with all she could, her breathing heavy, her body hunched in a painful position. "You demon spawn, you will be rid of!" His mother kept her eyes on her child, but every once in a while, they would bounce between him and Sebastian. Then, she started to smile. "And mommy's Angel is here to take you! God will grant you your fantastic punishment and you will be rid of in the world! Everything will be grand!"

James took a step forward, and watched Sebastian turn his body to James. James did not look up at his Guardian. "God works in mysterious ways, mother, and I do suppose this is one of those times. Let us pray," James brought his hands to his chest and held them together. His mother just laughed.

"You think God will save your pitiful soul? No one is here to save you, you ruined life!" James just held his hands to his chest. Sebastian lifted his arm in the direction of the mother and James watched his work. But he did nothing right away; he just held the arm in position. James smiled, and started to recite something he hadn't spoken of in years.

"'Thank you, Lord, for another day, the chance to learn, the chance to play,'" James' smile grew more at the word 'play'. This was a fun game of his now, the cards in his hand. He was so bored of the game his mother was playing. Now was his turn to make a suggestion. "'Now as I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,'" James watched as his mother took a step forward. Sebastian did not move.

"What are you waiting for, God? Kill him! Don't keep his soul, he has none!" Sebastian just stared at her, bearing his eyes into hers. She looked over at him and swung her knife. "And you! Why are you not killing him? Kill him!" Her hand went to her head and she scratched her scalp again, more blood pouring out of her head. James continued.

"'Please, guard me, Sebastian,'" James' eyes flicked over to him; Sebastian did nothing. His mother looked back at the Angel. "'through the night, and keep me safe till morning's light.'"

Suddenly, Sebastian's arm bent back, his robes moving with the stilled wind in the room. His mother tightened her hold on the knife, willing him to stay back. But Sebastian flicked his arm back in her direction. And all James could see was the black void that shot through the dark and took one life after another. It was Death. James felt immense joy in his heart, anxious to see his mother perish at Death's hand. "What are you doing?" She said. "No, aim it at him! I have been devout to you, Lord! Why!"

"'But should I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. And should I live for other days,'" James took a step forward toward his mother, she swinging her knife back to his little body. Sebastian's wing carefully wound around James' body and protected him from the demon in the room. A little click entered their ears, and he could hear his mother begging for mercy. She started to back away from the two, praying and hoping for salvation. "'I pray that God will guide my ways.'"

"Stop!" She cried.

But God worked in mysterious ways. James watched the shot in the dark howl through the air, the shadow on the wall moving faster and faster for his mother. And she tried with all her might to escape Death's door, but she was far too burdened with the life of a devout spirit. The dark matter crashed into her body, crushing her very soul with one blow, and her blood sprayed across the floor and against the walls. It added color and life to his room. She instantly dropped the knife to the floor, Death protecting it with his cloak, and she fell to his feet, all life vanishing.

Sebastian lowered his arm. "Amen."

James stared at his mother. She died the way she lived: painfully. And he enjoyed the look of surprise on her face. He would cherish that look for years to come. James looked over to the Angel next to him. "So you are my Guardian," he said through the air. Sebastian looked down at James and nodded.

"Thou shalt not be hurt in my protection," he replied. James watched him fall to his knees in one fell swoop, bowing his head toward the little boy.

"And if I am hurt?"

Sebastian lifted his eyes to the little boy, a small voice accompanied by the thunder in the sky. Perhaps it was God's warning, but God had no place in a house full of sin. "Then their destruction must be ordered by you, James."

James tried to suppress his immense joy about the Angel. This Angel would kill if anything were to happen to him? James started to laugh. Raskolnikov would be proud of his apprentice. How his dreams were finally spinning into reality. How the town a few miles over would know the name of James Moriarty. How he would be an outsider no more. James reached out to Sebastian and graced his hand on top of the head. It had no heat. It was not cold, either. The wings surrounded James again, accepting the touch of their master. The wings created the darkness. There was no light to be seen. James was thrilled, and Sebastian knew.

"Let's play a game," James whispered. Sebastian's lips twitched, and for a brief moment, James saw a smile. In his head, he heard his mother again, the infamous prayer crying to be heard. And Sebastian heard.

"Blessed be my child," he said to James. And James' smile grew.

"Hollowed be my name."


End file.
